


(If Your Old Man Ain't Treating You Right) 60 Minute Man

by beaubete



Category: Mojo - Butterworth
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, child prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra starts the Atlantic with £200 and a single sellable commodity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(If Your Old Man Ain't Treating You Right) 60 Minute Man

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a nagging thought when Mickey says, “I know you know who [Sam Ross] is.” All I could think is, “How?” and think about how quickly the club must have gone up….

It’s pocket money, change to put a jingle in his step, Daddy says.  He’s got a friend, a good friend, wants what Daddy keeps at the bar.  Has on tap at the bar.  Makes available any time he wants, and Daddy wants it often.  In the WC it’s on your knees and time to square your tab, in the store room it’s bend over here and earn the clothes on your back, in the little trundle bed at home with Mum on the other side of the wall it’s didn’t you like your supper? and what Daddy’s friend—

Because Baby wants, saw those plimsolls in a magazine, cool as James Dean and twice as sharp as a switchblade knife, saw a baseball jacket's come all the way from America with its knitted cuffs and the _pockets_ on the thing, it’s nearly fifteen pound if it’s a penny—wants to go see a picture and hide himself away for an hour or two, melting into the hard seats until his bottom hurts and it’s all gone away but for the pop-popping of pistols and the whooping redskin warriors.  He wants, and wanting costs money, no matter what you want.

And Daddy’s friend, he’s got a way that’s sweet-like, like he knows when Baby likes it a little, like he wants him to like it, like he likes it when Baby likes it.  Goes out of his way to make him like it, and when Baby’s shaking crying shamed, it’s Daddy smoothes his hand in Baby’s hair, it’s Daddy helps with the buttons and the zipper when Baby’s hands don’t work right, it’s Daddy throws him at the wall and smacks him with the back of his hand and calls him whore and more.  It's Daddy leaves Baby to the ache of fear and shame and  cock, leaves Baby crippled under the weight of his jealousy until he has the brilliant thought to make Baby come off again just for him, make him pretend he wants it bad and gets distracted by his own wants until Baby’s weeping, mouth full of tears and Daddy’s thick-disgusting fingers that taste of whisky and beer.

And then it’s Baby’s pocket full of shining pennies, a shilling or three, a half crown and a half a bag of mint humbugs with a pat on the arse and told to go keep himself busy.  It’s Baby with the shoes they talk about all down Dean Street, his hair sleek and gleaming and fresh-oiled.  It’s Baby looks like a movie star, and Daddy’s proud grin when his friends can’t stop looking at the curve of his arse in the line of his trousers.  Daddy forgets to be jealous when it’s Baby leaned on the bar for another beer and they can’t stop giving him the eye, giving him that hungry look like they’re starving for a bite and don't he just look delicious?  Daddy’s friends, but Daddy likes to remind them that he’s got something they don’t, unless they’re willing to pay: shoes and trousers and brilliantine, pomade and silk ties and smart braces, and Baby is dressed a king.  When he’s dressed.

Sometimes Daddy holds him close and Mum’s gone shopping, gone to get her hair set, gone visiting her friends to brag about how well the club’s doing—and to think Ezra’d only started it a few short months ago, with naught but the two hundred pounds left over from the caff and isn’t it his charm to see the club now, the crowds stretching down the road to get in.  Daddy holds him close and says thank you, thank you into the sweaty skin at the nape of his neck, says it’s just until they’ve made some good friends, just for now and when it’s over it’ll be just the two of them again.  But he’s got one more friend left for Baby to meet, one more and one more, and Baby’s getting older, begins to understand his mum’s wrinkle cream, her terrible fear, when he stops seeing so many of Daddy’s friends.

He gets dark, wiry hairs under his arms and about half the men disappear until Daddy holds him squirming and shaves them away; he gets curls around his cock and gets smacked for the nerve of it.  The men who’d loved him best when he’d sat on their fingers can’t meet his eyes.  Daddy’s contacts dry up.  He walks in on Daddy with a younger boy—it’s _innocent_ , the boy a singer with a straight vee of a narrow back tucked into his trousers as he tries on the shirt Baby’s made eyes at on the high street for a month and Daddy sends Baby away for tea, and if he’d ever wondered, well here’s his answer.  He fucks a girl in the Atlantic’s toilet and Daddy beats him so hard his breaths come raspy and panting, and Mickey brings him a bag of ice for the bruises on his face.  Mickey is kind.

And Daddy’s got another friend, one very last one, who’ll make or break the club.  Important, but Baby bites back a laugh at banana yellow hair and the greasy smile, whispers the name he’s been told in just the little-boy way Daddy’s friends all seem to like, and peels back his shirt.  And Daddy’s friend laughs, just laughs, and the deal is off.  Baby’s pretty enough, but old, looks like a fairy bastard, looks like his mouth was made for sucking and his arse for fucking, but that’s not what he came for.  Not what he wanted; Baby’s not what he wanted, but he’s welcome to have a suck to make up for the time wasted, and Baby’s face burns, his eyes go hot and sticking with the humiliation, but Daddy waves him on, points him to his knees, and puts him to his business as the two of them do their business.  He’s still wiping his mouth when the man and his yellow hair leave, and Daddy looks pleased despite Baby’s fuckup.  With a prettier boy, he could have had more, but it’s there, the start of a relationship.

And Daddy has a string of them, prettier boys.  Baby knows them all by name and slowly forgets his own.

**Author's Note:**

> After all the heartbreak of the actual fic, I feel bad posting this part (kind of; all writers are sadists, as well, so):
> 
> Remember how right after Mickey says, “I know you know who he is,” he says that Ezra and Sam had a deal and Sam was after a piece of the kid, and Baby says, “Oh, yeah? Which piece?” And then Mickey says the deal fell through because Ezra wouldn’t give that piece of the kid up? And Baby says, “Oh, that’s touching,”?
> 
> …is the rest of the inspiration for that fic. Is all I’m saying.


End file.
